


The Emma Game

by AnnieFey



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieFey/pseuds/AnnieFey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1861, and Emma Swan, streetwise orphan, is headed west to meet her destiny as housewife to a wealthy merchant in California. Killian Jones, notorious criminal, is following an old legend towards buried treasure and a fresh start. When their stagecoach is attacked by a bandit who plans to kidnap Emma, the two are forced to make an unlikely alliance as a web of promises made years ago begins to unfold around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pickpockets and Pistols

Her money was all gone.

Rather--it was sitting in the pocket of a long black coat directly across the seat from Emma Swan, whose reticule was feeling suddenly and conspicuously empty. She let the beaded purse fall from her fingers and leaned against the window, watching the scenery run by as she made plans to pickpocket her money back when they stopped to rest the horses. The silence in the coach was as long as the broad Nebraska plains, which they had left behind days ago for what the spinsters used to call the Wild, Wild West.

Emma pursed her lips and blew a long blonde curl away from her face. The weather was drier here than in Boston- she’d give it that- and arriving in California by stage was by no means her most desperate escapade- but they had yet to catch a glimpse of the redwood forests and snow-capped mountains detailed in the letters, and she was beginning to feel rather suffocated by the constant presence of dusty red desert.

To her right, the widow Lucas shifted in her seat and let out a low huff, lost in a fairytale dreamland that always eluded Emma. Across from them was the gentleman from New York, also asleep, yet somehow looking distinguished- and, beside him, well-worn black boots resting on the handle of Emma’s valise, was the long black jacket—the pickpocket—the naval officer, or so he had introduced himself when he joined them in Lincoln.

He was looking down at his hand, polishing some sort of pocket watch, and she took the opportunity to study him. From head to toe he was a man of contrasts- new jacket and scarred fingers, white features and black garments, open posture and guarded expression. Most notable, however, was what he was lacking: his left hand. The hook he’d replaced it with had frightened the widow when he’d first entered the coach; introductions had been cut abruptly short. Emma wondered cynically what purpose the hook could possibly serve. Carving up pies for the county fair? He hardly seemed the type.

As though sensing her curiosity, he stopped rubbing the trinket; before she could catch a better glimpse it was gone, probably with the rest of her money. He leaned back into the seat and settled his gaze on her.

“First stagecoach ride?” He spoke with a slight accent.

Emma raised an eyebrow.

“Well, you never forget your first.” He tapped the floor of the coach with his foot, and the widow Lucas huffed again in her sleep. When she didn’t respond, he raised a brow in return. “You know, most men would take your silence as off-putting, but I love a challenge.”

“I’m concentrating.”

“No, you’re afraid. Afraid to talk, to reveal yourself." He smirked. "To trust me.”

Emma frowned. “Who are you?”

“Killian Jones, but…” He bowed his head in a gesture that could have been either gentlemanly or mocking; Emma was inclined to consider the latter. “Most people have taken to calling me by my more colorful moniker.” He held up his handless appendage. “Hook.”

She nodded. “Emma Swan.”

He bowed again, deeper. “It’s a pleasure, milady.” He was definitely mocking her.

“Pleasure’s all mine.” Two could play.

Hook smirked. “And what sort of business, Emma Swan, would a young lady like yourself have to conduct in California? Gold digging?” He leaned closer. “Interior design?”

“Actually, I was commissioned to conduct the routine massacre of naval officers.”

“Pity I left the navy. I’m sure you would have been most thorough.”

“And what business would a one-handed pickpocket have in California? Gold digging?” She crossed her arms. “Kidnapping baby ducklings?”

“Actually, I--” He stopped short, and stood up.

“What--” The stagecoach came to a sudden halt. Emma, already in the process of standing up, fell back against the window frame. Her head throbbing, she began to disengage her skirts from the pile of luggage that had come crashing against her valise, but Hook knocked them aside.

“Get _down_ ,” he hissed, and she ducked her head automatically. Emma thought she heard the New York gentleman say something, but a loud noise erupted from behind them and she looked up. Directly where her head had been scarcely a moment before was a round hole in the coach’s siding. Across from them, the gentleman was dead.

The widow Lucas, suddenly and violently awake, screamed and turned to grip Emma’s hands tightly. “It’s bandits-oh, I knew it-I knew this would happen-I knew it-we're--” Her voice dropped off as another explosion sounded, this time to their right. The widow's hands went slack against Emma's wrists, and she was suddenly aware of something warm trickling into her lap.

She was not going to scream.

A third shot fired, seeming suddenly very near, and Emma dropped to her knees on the floor of the coach next to Hook, who was trying to wrench something from his luggage across the pile of suitcases and travelling cloaks.

A voice lilted in from outside: “Stop moving and no one else gets hurt.”

Emma couldn’t help it- she pulled herself up an inch or two by the doorframe to look. Just beside the coach stood a rather tall man, his scraggly brown hair and black bandana concealing any facial features beyond recognition.

His pistol was pointed at the window. “Get out of the coach.”

Beside her, Hook moved to stand, but Emma was already making her way out of the door and onto the dusty red soil. She dropped to the ground and straightened up, disentangling her skirts from her shoes and looking the man square in the eye.

“Look, pal, we’re not with the bank. We don’t have any gold.”

The man cocked his head, assessing her coldly. “Lost, Emma?”

She crossed her arms. “You don't know me.”

“Well- it just so happens that a girl like you is worth her weight in gold.”

Hook had exited the coach, and brushed past her now to examine the bandit. “Rather bad form, Devin, propositioning ladies in the desert.”

“Actually, Jones," he said, enunciating every word without inflection, "I’m here on a matter of…business. Personal business for my… employer.”

Emma frowned. “You two know each other?”

Eyeing Devin, Hook shrugged casually. “We’ve had cause to cross paths.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

It was as if she had never spoken. “I have strict instructions to bring the lady back alive.” Devin spoke slowly, with a low sort of drawl. “There are no such technicalities when it comes to your head…lieutenant.”

Just before her, Hook loomed in his black coat, and Emma could see the tip of something shiny gleaming beneath it. With a steady, practiced hand, she deftly snatched the pistol from its holster on the back of his belt and held it up, away from her chest.

She pulled the trigger.

A shot crashed through the desert, and Devin’s breast blossomed crimson. He fell back, almost too slowly, and hit the ground with an unsettling thud, the blood on his chest mixing immediately with red dust and painting a gruesome landscape across his brown shirt. The pistol was still smoking in Emma’s hands when Hook turned around, surprise turning his expression rapidly from what might have been admiration to a knowing smirk.

“You stole my gun, Swan.” There was no accusation in his voice.

Emma lowered the pistol and shrugged. “You stole my money.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Disclaimer: In order to create parallels between the lives of Hook and Emma in 1861 and the events of modern day, I've used a few lines from the show. These quotes and all characters belong exclusively to ABC's Once Upon A Time.


	2. An Aversion to the Law

The bare expanse of rust-red Nevada Territory stretched for what seemed to Emma Swan an eternity. They could have been in Ireland or Jamaica for all it looked like the country she’d called home for twenty-one years. She frowned, clicking the safety back on and tucking Hook’s pistol into her skirts.

Hook looked amused. “Are you planning to keep that, love?”

“A girl never knows when she might need to defend herself,” replied Emma, nonchalant, but as she spoke, her stomach began to coil and she put a hand to her waist. Just a moment ago, the widow Lucas had been alive, and that gentleman surely had a wife, back in New York- who was going to tell her- and ... and she had to be practical. Obsessing over the dead would benefit no one; she needed to sit down and collect her thoughts.

Hook caught her wrist as she tried to walk by. “Wait.”

“ _What?_ ” She didn’t mean to sound so irritated.

He turned her toward him, blue eyes serious, and reached up to touch her forehead gently. Emma winced. In the aftermath of the attack, she had forgotten all about hitting her head in the coach. Pain rushed back; her temple throbbed almost overwhelmingly. “Your forehead…it’s cut. Let me help you.” His face was very close to hers, and his breath was warm where it brushed her cheek.

“No.” She pulled away. “No, it’s fine.”

He tightened his grip on her wrist. “No, it’s not.”

Emma glared at him. “So now you want to be a gentleman?”

He smirked. “I’m always a gentleman.” Letting go, he reached into his coat and pulled out a bottle, unstopping it with his teeth. After emptying its contents into a black strip of bandana, he let the bottle fall to the ground and began wrapping the cloth around her forehead gently.

It stung. “What the hell is that?”

He frowned, tightening the knot with his good hand. “It’s rum. A bloody waste of it.” He stepped back. “Better?”

When the sharp pain of alcohol on her wound at last died down, she was surprised to see that the throbbing had subsided. Emma hated to admit it, but—“Yes.”

Hook nodded, and Emma turned away, toward the stagecoach. It was a lonely sight, the desecrated vehicle standing still in its tracks, its solidarity making it seem somehow vulnerable and small. The gold trimming, meant to impress, now appeared pale and weak when surrounded by the bold red desert that seemed to swallow up every sight and every sound. Even the wind had collapsed in on itself, now just a vain hiss in the distance. Emma had no desire to enter the coach, but in the interest of her stomach allowed herself to sit down on the platform by the door.

Hook apparently had no such qualms; he had climbed into the coach from the other side and was moving luggage around, probably recovering money from his own case and that of the others. It was easy not to trust him, after a lifetime of practice. It occurred to her, sitting there, that she might have suspected him as being an accessory to the robbery, had the bandit not asked so specifically for Emma. Hook was clearly no innocent; however, she did believe them to be on the same side. For now.

Frustration pooled in her stomach as she gazed out west; her fresh start was just waiting for her, tantalizing and unreachable. Where California had appeared so close just days ago, it seemed as far away now as Philadelphia, or Tallahassee. Emma tugged at the pendant around her neck and shielded her eyes with her hand, squinting towards the horizon in the east where, thousands of miles ago, she’d bid a hasty farewell to Boston. A horizon that suddenly no longer looked deserted.

“Hook,” she called, and heard the shuffling in the coach halt abruptly. “Do you see something, over there? I believe someone’s coming.”

There was a pause, and then the thud of his boots hitting the ground, before he came sauntering around the corner of the coach. He shielded his own eyes, following her gaze, and stopped. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Swan, we had best be getting out of here.” Hook paced over to the front of the stagecoach and rapidly began detaching the horses from the vehicle.

“We've been attacked in the middle of the desert, Hook." Emma followed him to the coach, trying to avoid letting her gaze fall on the driver, who was most conspicuously dead in the seat. "Have you considered the idea that they might offer to help us?”

He cocked his head to the side as he tried to cut through the rope with his hook. “More likely, darling, they’ve come to kill us.”

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

He grimaced. “Love, I’m what you might call an outlaw. It’s a person-”

“I _know_ what an outlaw is.” She leaned against the coach. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just wait until the authorities come.”

“I’ll give you three.” Hook paused, holding up his good hand. “One, you don’t know that they are the authorities- they could be bandits, and, love, I’m a _far_ cry from most of the outlaws you’ll meet around here. Two, if they are the law, consider just how suspicious you’ll look on your own, the only one alive in the middle of the desert.” He gestured to her skirt with his hook. "Holding a pistol.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “What’s the third reason?”

Hook smirked. “I’m devilishly handsome.”

She snorted in a wholly unladylike manner, but then, casting a glance at the carriage and the innocent bodies inside, she looked at Hook, serious. “We should at least bury them.”

There was a pause, and for the first time she thought she saw a spark of empathy buried in his blue eyes. “Aye, lass, that we should.” His voice sounded sorrowful, but he didn’t move, and both of them knew without saying a word that there was no time.

Emma moved to the side of the coach to set the other horse free. Although she wouldn’t have admitted it, she had been taken aback by Devin’s request and his reference to some sort of employer—by the idea that some nameless being considered her a prize worth killing for. Waiting for help was safe, and appealing. Hook, however, had a point—and she was aware that his aversion to the law was matched equally only by her own. Devilishly handsome or not, getting away from the stagecoach and the open desert was a good idea.

When she’d loosened the horse’s knots sufficiently, she swept up her skirts and hoisted herself up onto its back, kicking off her impractical travelling shoes in the process, and letting them fall carelessly to the dusty ground. Hook, astride his own mount, surveyed her.

“You look like an outlaw, love.”

Emma smirked, spurring her horse into action. “Good.”


	3. Golden Compass

The desert, Killian Jones had initially suspected, would be rather like the ocean—endless and unforgiving. It was. It was also bloody ugly. He _knew_ the seas, knew the tides and the winds, knew the taste of salty air and the beautiful, beautiful blues and greens of the water. He did not know the desert—a fact was becoming painfully apparent to him as the journey stretched on. He’d sold the _Jolly Roger_ in New York; what he wouldn’t give now to be back on the ocean, on familiar terrain like the old days. Yes—the old days would be a nice change. Too bad they were bloody well _over._

He straightened up a little, and shook himself. The old days were over, but the new ones were only just beginning. The Sierra Nevada Mountains had finally come into view the morning before, and Killian was fairly certain they could reach them by nightfall. Soon, at long last, he could commence his search.

Frowning, Killian’s eyes shifted away from the road to the Swan girl riding ahead of him. Over the last few days she had taken to leading, probably in the name of proving a point, as she seemed so apt to do. He didn’t mind. The view back here was better.

 

xxx

 

He almost missed the desert. Dense green foliage hung overhead, as though the trees were purposefully keeping the sunlight from him. It was infuriating, and the Swan girl’s obvious ease in their surroundings only served to heighten his frustration. As if sensing his eyes on her, she glanced back, slowing her pace and smirking at his discomfort.

“I thought you couldn’t wait to get to the mountains?”

“Only because they’re one step closer to my destination.” His horse nosed beside a branch, and it snapped back to hit his face. “Bloody hell!”

She appeared to find his discomposure amusing. “You’re a bandit- isn’t the forest supposed to be your hiding place or something?”

“ _Pirate_ , love, not Robin Hood. Just because I’m an outlaw doesn’t mean I sleep in the bushes and befriend the squirrels.”

Swan nodded sagely. “You’d probably scare them away.”

“Aye.”

There was a pause as she returned her gaze to the road, and Killian watched her long blonde curls fluttering against her back, looking oddly brilliant against the dark greens of the forest. 

“The forest doesn’t seem to bother you,” he observed.

She shook her head but didn’t turn, concentrating on the path ahead. “I grew up in the city; I’m not used to open spaces like the desert. You’re too…exposed.” She laughed a little ruefully. “I guess I like being somewhere like this, with plenty of places to hide.”

He laughed as well. “You wouldn’t like the ocean, love.”

“I’ve never actually been on a boat before.”

“It’s the most glorious feeling. Like…liquid freedom.”

She was quiet for a moment, and Killian felt suddenly embarrassed at this admission. “On the ocean, it’s easy to see your enemies,” he said, more forcefully than he’d intended. “You don’t need to hide. You can fight like a man.”

“I suppose that’s the difference between us,” she retorted, “And the reason that I still have both of my hands.” Picking up the pace, she widened the gap between them, and Killian was alone with his thoughts again.

 

xxx

 

Lying under familiar stars that night, Killian could almost pretend he was aboard the _Jolly Roger_ , setting sail across the Caribbean. It occurred to him that the ocean wasn’t the only thing he missed—it was freedom he craved, the ability to sail about wherever he chose, untethered by fate and responsibility. Slipping a hand into his coat pocket, he pulled out the last of his money- coins stolen from Emma Swan and the widow Lucas-and his golden compass, which he spun around between his fingers. When it stilled, the silver arrow continued to point west. Good.

“A compass?” The Swan girl’s voice broke through the restless April night, and Killian resisted the urge to bury the treasure safely in his pocket. She’d propped her golden head up by one elbow, and was looking at him. He sat up and rearranged himself in a more comfortable position.

“Aye, a compass.”

She squinted in the firelight. “A compass that points west.” By now, he was almost accustomed to hearing the relentless sarcasm in her voice.

“North is rather conformist, don’t you think, love?”

“Only if you like getting lost.”

Killian smirked. “I am never lost.”

Swan raised a brow. “So the compass is supposed to lead you to, what? Buried treasure?”

“Something like that.” He rolled over onto his side to face her. “According to legend, this compass will guide a person to their heart's truest desire. Here,” he said, “Give me your hand.” She held out her palm, and he placed the compass in the center of it, gently brushing her skin with his knuckles in the interest of vexing her. As they watched, the west-bound arrow shifted slightly to aim west-southwest.

She glanced up at him. “San Francisco.” He couldn’t be sure whether her expression was one of great relief or great annoyance—although he prided himself in his ability to read a room, her emotions were always guarded, and he found them difficult to decipher. She deposited the compass back into his waiting palm, and he was pleased to see the silver arrow return to its westward post. He tucked it back into his pocket, and they returned their gazes to the stars.

It was the Swan girl who broke the silence again, after a moment.

“Was it your mother’s?”

“The compass?”

“No, your eyebrows.” In the dark he could barely make out the roll of her green eyes.

“I bought the compass in New York City. It cost me my ship.” He wasn’t sure why he was telling her this, exactly; perhaps he found comfort in the knowledge that beneath her sarcasm, she was listening. Most of the women he’d known had little time for conversation—too busy, what with husbands and other lovers to tend to.

“The way you spoke this afternoon,” she said slowly, her quiet voice blending into the night, “Your ship sounded very important to you.”

“It was.”

“And yet for this…desire of yours- it was worth selling it?”

Killian felt cold satisfaction creep into his heart as remembered how very far he had come, how long- too long- he had waited, and how very close he was at last. He smirked, closing his eyes.

“It will be.”


	4. The Worth of Risks

Killian Jones could count the things he truly valued on his one good hand. There was rum, firstly, which he currently possessed in alarmingly short supply, and which had become another good reason to get to San Francisco as soon as possible. Purchasing rum, however, required gold (second on this list of his), and the Swan girl had already stolen most of her money back. He frowned, considering this. Perhaps he could just steal the rum from a merchant directly.

California was alarmingly large—somehow he’d come to expect riding boldly out of the forest and into the great city of San Francisco, but whatever his expectations had been, the reality had become a long trek across a dull brown landscape of hills and plains. How anyone could compare such a scene to the rolling waves of the ocean was a concept damn well outside his understanding.

What he did understand: revenge. Number three. For a man as single-minded as Killian, the revenge business was both all-consuming and unfailing. He’d set his mind to it, once, and now there could be nothing important enough to draw him away from his quest. It wasn’t a hero’s journey, no—he’d given that up long ago after losing hand and heart. But there had been something delicious about revenge, when he’d first started out. It was villainy surrounded by the dramatic flair he once craved, but now found cold and wearying.

Freedom- four— _there_ a man could find satisfaction. This revenge business, this ridiculous journey across the still, dry plains of America, had cemented in his mind the knowledge that it was _freedom_ he craved, liberty above everything. To feel the wind in his hair and taste the salty-sweet kiss of the sea!

“Hook!” The Swan girl’s voice shook him from his reverie. Realizing all too late her intent to pause, he halted abruptly behind her.

“ _Bloody hell_ ,” he muttered, composing himself. “Are we enjoying the scenery, love?”

Green eyes flashed back at him, exasperated. “I’m not sure how you managed to miss it, Hook, but there’s a town up ahead.”

Indeed, in his earlier frustrations with the geography of this ridiculous continent, Killian had missed the small town, which appeared to have sprung up from nowhere on the horizon directly before them. He flicked an eyebrow upward, smirking. “Ah, two outlaws going for a visit to town. Everyone loves a good hanging.”

“Nobody is getting hanged today,” Emma replied impatiently. “If we leave the horses well out of town, we can pass unnoticed long enough to get everything we need.”

He pursed his lips, nodding. “Such as rum,” he remarked nonchalantly.

“Such as _food_ ,” she replied, and rode away.

Killian liked to watch her sometimes, at moments like the present, when she was studiously ignoring him, business-like, her blonde hair caught by the wind as her horse picked up the pace. She was an enigma, this Emma Swan. She was as sharp-witted as he was mocking, and he’d always liked a challenge. That was number five, of course—a woman, a challenge.

He frowned, recalling the Swan girl’s actions in Nevada Territory. He’d marked her as a wealthy debutante in the stagecoach, with her fine gown and valise, and even her audacity in firing his gun at Devin had not changed this deduction. However, running the memory through his mind again, he began to feel the faint beginnings of unease tug at his senses. She had audacity, he granted her that, but her aim had been excellent, her arm steady, her reaction to the entire situation so exactly opposite to that of any debutante he had ever met (or made love to)- which was many- that it could not have been the work of a moment.

Something about the raid continued to bother him. Although having all the appearances of a kidnapping, it was missing a vital aspect: an accomplice. The captors would have needed someone follow their mark, to ride in the stagecoach, and to assist in the abduction. And yet no one had survived, save himself, and the Swan girl.

The Swan girl.

He wasn’t the only soul in pursuit of fortune— or the only man to have heard tales of the golden compass. If someone else was after the valuable trinket, a stagecoach robbery was an ideal way to get it. A kidnapping was the ultimate cover. They would have needed an accomplice to pull it off—and it was Emma Swan, debutante and crack shot, who had survived. She could be leading him directly into a trap.

Ahead of him, she continued to ride towards the town, oblivious to his thoughts. His speculations could well be false, but one thing was certain: there was more to both woman and robbery than met the eye. He could not risk being wrong about her. Emma Swan’s very presence had become a great liability to his revenge business, and he was too close to fail now. Killian took a deep breath.

Rum first. Then the lengthier process of procuring his gold, his revenge, and finally—his freedom. There could be no room in his plans for a woman, especially this one.

 

xxx

 

Emma Swan was uncomfortable. The rolling golden hills of California, though beautiful, felt exposed and dangerous. Although training had masked her inner thief, no amount of education could destroy her instincts, and recent situations- running from both murderers and the law- had awakened them again to their full potential.

Instinct had brought them this far- Hook’s near-constant state of flirtation and snide commentary weren’t exactly considered assets- and it was instinct that had begun to gnaw at the pit of her stomach as they hiked on foot to the outskirts of the little town.

It wasn’t in her nature to trust, and throughout her interactions with the pirate-turned-outlaw, Emma had found her apprehension mounting. There was something about her memory of the stagecoach robbery that didn’t sit well with her, and this feeling had not faded with time. If Devin had really been working for an employer, the kidnapping scheme must have been thought out well in advance, and likely involved other people. Emma was disinclined to think that the thieves had intentionally shot their own partners—and yet she and Hook had been the only people left alive on that stagecoach.

Any other woman might have suggested luck, but Emma had experienced too much in her twenty-one years to relegate anything, no matter how trivial, to mere fortune. If Hook had been spared, there was a reason for it—and she was beginning to wonder if he could be walking her straight into a trap.

She had come too far, staked too much on her fresh start. She could not risk being wrong about him.

 

xxx

 

They split up in town, partly because they looked less suspicious that way, and partly because Emma preferred Hook steal rum from the merchants rather than pinch her money to buy it. For her part, she was purchasing much-needed supplies at the mercantile, a clean and fashionable establishment that unnerved her. It had been a long time since she’d walked the crowded streets of Boston, and even this small California town seemed to hum with whispers and bustle about with life.

Preoccupied with her own thoughts, she nearly collided with another customer just entering the shop, a tall man whose blonde moustache wore the remains of coffee. He smiled, and Emma, offering a strained twist of her lips in return, gathered up her purchases.

The lady at the counter took longer than she ought in counting out the silver coins in change, her movements restricted by a thoroughly impractical blue riding costume. “Anything else for you, miss?” Emma began to shake her head, but stopped as something caught her eye.

“Actually,” she said, “There _is_ one more thing."

 

xxx

 

The tavern was an old clapboard building, hastily built and repaired often, at the center of town. Outside, several tall wooden posts cast long shadows across the dusty ground, which now coated Emma’s bare feet like makeshift slippers. Horses would spend their evenings tied here, while their lonely owners drank away the town, their gold, and the dreams they’d long abandoned in fortune-weary California.

She leaned against a post coolly, and after a moment the sight of a familiar black-clad pirate greeted her. Beneath his jaunty smirk, Emma detected an uncharacteristically solemn air; he must have failed to pinch that bottle of rum. He saluted her mockingly and sauntered toward her.

Emma walked decisively toward him, and pressed a hand firmly to his chest. His breath was warm against her cheek, his coat peculiarly soft across her fingertips, and she marched him around so that their bodies were pressed together, his back pushed hard against the post.

Hook leaned in, face very close to hers. “It’s about bloody time,” he remarked, part mocking and part flirtatious. He smelled like rum and salt, and he reached out teasingly to straighten one of the wayward curls that fell recklessly across her face. For an instant time stood still—and then Emma’s hands shot out behind him, tying the heavy cord she’d bought around his chest. She stepped back quickly.

Comprehension spread across his face, his smirk rapidly disappearing as the rope held. His eyes, finding hers, were burning.

“What are you doing? Swan—” He struggled against the rope again, and grimaced. “Why do this to me now?”

People were beginning to stare, and Emma knew she had to leave quickly. “Hook, I have to get to San Francisco, and I can’t—I can’t take a chance that I’m wrong about you.” She looked him in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

Solemnity forgotten, Hook’s face was painted with heightened mockery. “You’re just going to leave me here-” his gaze swept the dusty town “-to die?”

She couldn’t trust him. He was a risk she couldn’t afford to take. “You’re not going to die,” she retorted sharply, and then, her voice softer, “I just need a head start. That’s all.”

Realizing she was serious, his eyes grew desperate. “Swan. SWAN!”

Emma turned and ran down the dusty street.

She had to get as far away as possible before he caught up to her—had to find her way to San Francisco alone. If she’d learned anything in Boston, it was that unnecessary risks were never worth taking. The street seemed to fly by, the town shrank beneath her feet, and she was passing the last building, moments later, when the pounding of footsteps began to sound behind her. Scanning the barren landscape for cover, she ran faster- the footfalls were closer- and all at once someone slammed against her, knocking her to the ground.

Sprawled in the dust, Emma was keenly aware of cold metal tightening around her wrists, and a blonde moustache, flecked with coffee, staring into her face with satisfaction.

“Mr. Geoffrey Stewart,” he introduced himself proudly, “Sheriff.”

She stared up at the brilliant sun and closed her eyes in exasperation.

"I received a tip from a young man in black not twenty minutes ago," he said, "About the Nevada Territory stagecoach robbery.” His tone was friendly, rather like a reprimanding uncle, but his words were wholly unexpected. Her eyes shot open, and she made to sit up.

“ _What?_ ”

“Emma Swan,” he said, shaking his head. “You are under arrest.”


	5. Quite the Team

Decades at sea and the occasional prison sentence had made Killian Jones no stranger to the damp, dark feeling that shrouded the little room. It was poorly structured to begin with; cracks of light flitted across his cell like seductive little pixies, and the bars were rusted red-brown like the Nevada Territory desert that had gotten him into this mess in the first place. The desert and that damn Swan girl. He’d thought to preempt her by tipping off the sheriff when they'd come into town; he had not expected to be tied up nearly twenty minutes later. _Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell._ He drained the last drops of the rum he’d pinched in Philadelphia, and tossed the empty bottle unceremoniously against the side of the cell, relishing the harsh crunch of glass against seasoned wood.

Footsteps outside caught his attention, and he turned around just as the distant door swung open, the blinding light of afternoon hitting him full in the face. _Bloody hell._ He leaned back against the corner and closed his eyes against the glare. There was a solemn thud, and the light raging against his eyelids lessened considerably. Muffled footfalls sounded through the corridor.

After a short time, a key scraped in the lock, and someone wrenched his cell door open with a crash. Killian ignored this placidly, as well as the clinking of cuffs. The door clattered shut again, and he noted the sound of key in lock again with mild disappointment as the final retreat of heavy footsteps signaled the sheriff’s departure. For a brief moment he relaxed in the renewed silence.

“What the hell was that for?” The unmistakable voice of Emma Swan rang across his cell, and Killian sighed, opening one eye to peer at her. She was glaring at him amongst the broken remnants of his bottle. He shrugged, turning the corners of his mouth up in a show of innocence.

“I had absolutely nothing to do with that, love.”

“I’m not talking about the glass.” Swan moved over a pace and sank to the floor of the cell with ease, rubbing her newly emancipated wrists gingerly.

Killian opened his other eye, humor disintegrating as icy anger settled in the pit of his stomach. “Talking about prison, then? As you can see, darling, I’m here too. So, good for you,” he drawled coldly. “You bested me! I can count the amount of people who’ve done that on one hand.”

Her eyes grew wide with naked fury. “That supposed to be funny?" She straightened her skirts and glared at him. “You son of a bitch.”

“Are we really playing that game?”

“You framed me.”

“Says the woman who tied me to a post.”

The Swan girl was clenching her jaw fiercely. “What the _hell_! Hook!” Enunciating her words carefully, she added, “I just need to get to San Francisco. What the hell do you want?”

Killian turned around to face her, cold facade lost. “I need my bloody revenge, Swan. Let’s be honest with one another. You knew about the compass all along.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“You were the accomplice. You staged the kidnapping so that I’d trust you. Well, love, it’s a bloody good thing I didn’t.”

“ _I’m_ the accomplice? Are you seriously suggesting that I’d kidnap myself?”

“Are you seriously pretending it wasn’t a robbery?”

“Why the hell would I stage a robbery? Is this still about your stupid compass?”

“There’s nothing a person wouldn’t do for gold, lass.”

The Swan girl was shaking her head. “Stop evading, Hook. _You_ knew Devin. _You_ got me arrested. I don’t know who you’re working for, but you _are_ the accomplice.”

Her words he could write off; a debutante of reasonable caliber and any decent criminal could lie convincingly. But her tone was all wrong. Rather than the cool desperation of a guilty woman, Swan came across as somehow dignified and angry. Killian frowned, the broken pieces beginning to fit together in his mind as fragments that he’d disregarded began to surface in his memory. Her genuine surprise during the attack. Her honest interest in his compass the other night. “I’m not the accomplice,” he said slowly.

The debutante’s laugh was laced with sarcasm, but when he made no response, she fell silent. Her green eyes narrowed as she tilted her head to the side, analyzing him. “You’re telling the truth,” she muttered.

Killian met her gaze steadily. “Have I ever told you a lie?”

She ignored this, frowning contemplatively. “I wasn’t the accomplice either,” she said evenly. “I assumed it was you, because you and I-”

 “-were the only ones left alive.” He nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

Swan sighed, visibly frustrated. “If you weren’t trying to kidnap me, why have me locked up?”

“Perhaps,” Killian countered, “You could answer a similar burning question of mine.”

“I asked first.”

“Fair enough.” He leaned back against the corner of the cell easily. “I needed to get to San Francisco, and I couldn’t risk you stealing the compass.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I needed to get there too,” she said. “I couldn’t risk you kidnapping me.”

He nodded.

“I suppose,” she said at last, “We both betrayed each other.”

“Right.”

“And now we’re in jail.”

“Precisely.”

“Any plans, pirate?” Her voice was eternally sarcastic.

“Not at the moment.” Killian reached into his coat and pulled out the flask he’d swiped from the tavern. “Rum?”

She took the little glass bottle and drank appreciatively, handing it back noticeably lighter. Killian drained the rest and tossed the empty vessel into the corner, irreverently delighted to hear the telltale crunch of glass again.

He crossed his arms. “You know, Swan, you never really answered my question, back in the coach.”

“If I recall correctly, we were too busy being shot at to allow time for pleasantries.”

“Why would a rich debutante like yourself come to California?”

Swan’s blonde hair fell lightly about her shoulders as she adjusted her skirts. “I’m getting married,” she replied evenly. “And you? What makes you so desperate to get to San Francisco?”

Married! That was a dreadfully boring. “I’m in the revenge business,” said Killian. “Swan, lass, assuming we get out of here- which we will- I don’t suppose we could make some sort of deal to, ah, refrain from putting each other in jail again?”

“It would save time,” she observed, just as the jail door creaked open and lantern light flooded the room. They stood up quickly.

“Not to worry, love,” Killian muttered. “I have a plan.”

“Really,” retorted the debutante.

He crooked an eyebrow mischievously. “Seduction.”

The Swan girl rolled her eyes. “I don’t do seduction.”

“Oh?”

She smirked, and stepped up to the front of the cell. The guard’s light beamed onto her face, lighting up her golden curls and casting her shadow across the dusty floor to the broken rum bottles in the corner.

“Excuse me?” Her voice quivered tremulously. “This man is bothering me.” She gestured toward him daintily.

_Oh, bloody hell._

“There are two o’ yeh in here now?” The guard’s heavy footsteps halted, and Killian recognized him as the man who’d found him tied up in front of the tavern. Unfortunately, he wasn’t an imbecile; unlike the sheriff, he’d identified Killian as Captain Hook immediately and thrown him in jail. “No, no, I have to move one o’ yeh.” The guard unlocked the cell door with the necessary scraping of keys. “Damn outlaws and yehr-”

There was a thud as the Swan girl knocked him out with the butt of her pistol. Killian’s pistol. He frowned.

“How the hell did you manage to smuggle that in here?”

She smirked. “Décolletage.”

“Ah. As you know, I am bereft of…décolletage.”

“May I ask where is this is going?”

“The guard took my sword, love.”

She knelt down and plucked a gun from the guard’s holster. “Now you have a new weapon,” she said, tossing it to him.

“Bit tricky, lawmen are. He also took my compass.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Look, darling, not everyone has ‘décolletage’ with which to hide their treasures. Point is, we need to break into the sheriff’s office before we break out of prison.”

She rolled her eyes. “Let’s go get your compass.”

The floor of the building was merely dirt, packed down by months of guards and prisoners marching back and forth between the bank’s coffers and the hangman’s noose. It was the sort of jail that one might construct hastily when the outlaws start slinking out of the hills, the sort that everybody means to fix up next summer and never does. The sheriff’s office was located by the entrance, sealed off from the rest of the prison by a flimsy wooden door. Had the lawman been present, he certainly would have heard them coming.

The Swan girl kicked open the door, which gave way to a small room with crude wood flooring, a tall cabinet, and a simple writing desk upon which lay a modest stack of paper. The office was otherwise empty, bereft of sheriff, sword, and compass. Squinting in the light of a thick glass window, Killian walked toward the desk, rifling through the papers and opening the drawer. Nothing of significance—except for a few gold coins, which he pocketed triumphantly.

Swan put her hands on her hips. “So it’s just…in here somewhere?”

Killian frowned. “Allegedly.” He stepped back, away from the desk and nearer to the cabinet, atop which a large black lockbox was fixed. _This_ was interesting. “Give me a boost, would you, love?”

“So I can’t see what else you’re pocketing?” She rolled her eyes. “No way. You give me a boost.”

He sighed. “Try something new, darling. It’s called trust.”

She seemed to be weighing her better judgment against him, and Killian was almost surprised when she didn’t reply with a scathing remark. “We do it side by side, and fast. Who knows how long before the-”

“JONES!” The weighty footsteps of the guard sounded in the corridor.

“Someone’s up,” Killian commented, glancing at her. He grabbed the appropriated pistol and dashed out of the little room.

“Hold it right there,” the guard said heavily from where he stood, perhaps twenty paces down the corridor, pointing a revolver at Killian.

_Bloody hell._

“Put yehr pistol down and turn around.” Killian lowered the gun slowly to the ground and turned away, scowling as he felt the cold touch of metal clamping onto his wrists. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of motion in the sheriff’s office.

“Let’s get back to the cell, shall we?” he remarked brightly.

“That’s right,” the guard replied, spinning Killian forcefully around. “Back to yehr cell, Hook.”

“It’s Captain Hook, actually.”

“Hook is just fine,” declared a feminine voice behind them. “Don’t you think?”

Killian grinned as the guard let go of his arms and spun his portly person around to face Emma Swan. She stood calmly in the doorway of the sheriff’s office, blonde hair cascading over her shoulders in the dim sunlight, and cold confidence painted about her lips as they twisted upward. She pointed her pistol squarely at the guard.

“Put yehr pistol down,” he demanded, aiming his revolver at her, but she just smirked.

In the blink of an eye, Killian slipped his hook out of the metal cuff and snatched his pistol off the ground. Turning, he smacked it across the guard’s head and watched him crumple instantly. He knelt to check the man’s pulse with his good hand, secretly relieved to feel the answering heartbeat.

“He’s out cold,” said Killian, standing. “I don’t mean to upset you, love, but I think we make quite the team.”

Swan arched a brow. “Catch,” she said, tossing his sword towards him. He caught it by the handle and unsheathed it, watching the faint light dance across the edge and reveling in its familiarity. Leaving the guard’s pistol behind, he tucked both sheath and sword back into his belt.

“You pick a lock quickly,” he remarked.

She shrugged. “I’ve had some experience.” Stepping forward, she handed him the compass. “And you’re quite the escape artist.”

He grinned, rubbing the surface of the precious talisman. “I’ve had some experience.”

They were quiet for a moment, watching the silver arrow spin about in the light of the dim corridor. It rocked back and forth for an instant, and finally flickered southwest. Killian deposited it carefully into his coat pocket.

“To San Francisco?” he inquired.

“To San Francisco,” Swan agreed.


	6. The Golden Gate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update is so long in coming! I've been very busy of late, but things are smoothing out, so the next chapter will be up soon. Thanks for reading--you guys are awesome. :)

San Francisco.

Emma Swan wasn’t used to stopping for beautiful things. In Boston, there had always been places to go, jobs to do, and she’d never had the opportunity to stop running.

San Francisco was different. She could feel it as they stepped over the ridge, the salty air unfurling around them like a foreign flag, and she could see it in Hook’s face, the way his blue eyes shut tightly as he inhaled like a man coming up for air after a very, very long time. Below them, golden countryside gave way to long cobblestone streets that cascaded into the wharf. The fog had given up its daily crusade on the city, lifting enough that she could see the ferryboats and cargo ships coming in and out of the bay. Emma Swan wasn’t used to beautiful things at all, and San Francisco was a brushstroke of black and gold against a brilliant blue canvas.

“It’s called the Golden Gate,” said Hook, who was looking at her.

Emma blinked. “What?”

“There,” he said, pointing with his good hand, “The stretch of water where the ocean meets the bay.” As he spoke, a particularly large ship sailed through the mouth of the bay, and he exhaled slowly.

“You miss it, don’t you,” said Emma quietly.

“Every day, lass.” He looked like he was going to say more, but a stagecoach rumbled behind them, and the two turned quickly away from the road. Now that they’d escaped prison, they were undoubtedly being searched for. San Francisco was, incidentally, a wonderful place to hide, and Hook and Emma spared no time stepping into the street and making their way down into the city.

The view from the ridge had been peaceful, but as the pair walked past the old factories, gilded hotels, and brightly painted clapboard stores, the loud bustling of the city swept over them. Merchants shouted their wares from the storefronts and streets, while hired workmen hoisted crates onto the heavy wooden beams of the wharf. A boat horn barreled through the air, and the seagulls objected to everything as they circled the decks of tall ships. Somewhere far below, the San Francisco Bay lapped gently against the pilings, as if pondering what the commotion was all about.

A small boy wearing tattered clothing and a smart black cap waved a rolled-up newspaper in the air. “ _Mirror of the Times_!” he called loudly to the passerby. “San Francisco _Mirror_!”

Emma stopped walking. “Hook,” she said suddenly, “How long do you think it’s been since Nevada?”

His eyes widened. “Bloody hell.”

“’Scuse me, miss,” said the boy, who had spotted them, “Care to buy a paper?”

She hesitated, glancing at him. It shouldn’t have been cold, but San Francisco had never been known for its summers, and he was shivering. Nodding, Emma dug into the recesses of her handbag for a coin, and placed it in his palm.

“Thanks, miss,” he said gratefully, handing her the paper. “Confederate troops abandoned Harper’s Ferry!” he called across the street. “Read all about it in the _Mirror_!”

As they walked away, Hook glanced at her, brow raised. “Do you buy a paper every time you want to know the date?”

“I just…” Emma shook her head. “He just reminded me of myself when I was that age.”

He feigned astonishment. “You were a lad once? Emma, love, you never fail to surprise me.”

She rolled her eyes, spreading the paper open in front of them and glancing quickly over the headlines, searching for the date.

“June 15th,” she said. “It’s only the fifteenth.”

Now he was truly surprised. “The stagecoach was supposed to arrive on the sixteenth.”

“Right,” she said, remembering, “But it was going to stop in Sacramento on the way. We must have picked up the lost time.”

Hook nodded, and they continued walking toward the wharf. The air was quickly filling with the smell of fish and cooking oil, and Emma realized she was desperately hungry.

“I don’t have to meet Bettencourt- my fiancée- until tomorrow,” she said. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

He glanced up at the building they were passing, a tall hotel building with a large dining room and clapboard exterior. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Hook opened the door, bowing with a mock flourish that made Emma roll her eyes again. Almost exactly forty-five years later the earth would shatter and the hotel would be split in two, burning with the city as the caustic night reclaimed every gilded façade, but they would be long gone by then, a distant American memory. Today San Francisco was golden.

Neither had eaten sourdough before; Emma had never tasted chowder. They eavesdropped on other peoples’ conversations and laughed at nothing. He dared her to dip her feet in the sea; she threatened to push him in, and the afternoon stretched long over steaming mugs of chocolate and small Spanish pastries.

The last day of adventure that either would be allowed, in their world of marriage and revenge, was almost over—and perhaps it was because they were destined for such inevitably separate lives that they allowed the afternoon to carry them away. Emma forgot sarcasm and Declan, about learning to steal and to curtsy—and when Hook grinned impishly at her, she thought his blue eyes shone two shades brighter. She never mentioned his revenge; he said nothing about her childhood, and somewhere in the middle of those cobblestone streets, thick tobacco and sea salt smells following them like a promise—for one shining moment in her life, Emma forgot to feel alone.

They spent the last of her money on chocolate and rum, and as afternoon faded into evening, they made their way at last toward the wharf.

The wind picked up as they reached the ships, and Emma was grateful for the sturdy leather boots she’d purchased on their way to the city. Someone had left a pile of crates on the dock, and she took it as an invitation to sit. A foghorn sounded in the distance; evening was falling quickly over the bay, and Emma was returning to reality. She sighed, watching the waves crash against the pilings.

“You miss it?” Hook had joined her.

“What, Boston?” Emma laughed bitterly. “Oh, no.”

“You say that now.”

“Believe me, leaving was the best decision I ever made.”

Hook shook his head. “I thought the same thing when I joined the navy. It turned out to be the worst decision of my life.”

The navy? He had to be kidding. “You miss it, then? Home?”

“Ireland?” He shrugged, looking out to sea in a contemplative way. Emma couldn’t decide whether he was lost in thought or simply trying to pose for her. “Oh, no. I miss the ocean, though.”

“But you gave up your ship for revenge?”

Hook arched a brow. “And now you’re giving up your freedom for security.”

Emma glared at him. “It’s the opposite, really.”

“How is marriage going to bring you freedom? Have you even met your fiancé?”

“That,” she retorted, “Is completely beside the point.”

He made a face of mock surprise. “Oh, he could be hideous, love.”

“I am not listening to you.”

“He never showers and keeps pigs in the bedroom.”

Emma made a face.

“He has seven fingers on each hand, loads of rings—bloody big ones—and speaks only Russian.”

“We are not having this conversation.”

“You know,” said Hook. “I think I know him. Friend of mine, assassinated the king. You said his name was Beckendorf?”

“Bettencourt.”

“That’s even worse, love,” he said, sounding so serious that Emma had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“Emma Swan is marrying an Italian magistrate!” Hook announced suddenly to the wharf. “He’s extraordinarily hairy—”

“I don’t know you,” she muttered, trying to conceal a smile.

“Eats spiders for breakfast!”

“Still don’t know you.”

“Sings opera on Saturdays!”

“I don’t know him,” she confided to a passing fisherman, who rolled his eyes and walked faster.

“He has one giant, bushy unibrow.” Hook’s voice had gotten quiet, and he leaned forward, tracing her own twin brows gently with his finger. “Just one.” She could feel his breath against her cheek, sharply contrasting the bitter wind.

And Emma pulled away. “I am marrying him,” she said, the spell broken and her voice rising, “Because I am out of options. And believe me, I have tried many roads out of this life. But there are no goddamn…fairy godmothers in this world.” She stopped, coughing in the cold. “Women aren’t allowed to be lucky, Hook. If I want to change my life, I have to change it myself. And _this_ is how I’m doing it.”

He was looking at her intently, blue eyes unreadable in the evening light. “Well, then,” he said at last, “Who am I to stop you?” He stood, and Emma stood with him.

“So this is goodbye,” she said.

He nodded. “Unless we get arrested.”

“Yes, and I’ll know who to blame for that.”

He smirked, but didn't speak. Somewhere in the city a clock struck seven.

“Hook,” said Emma seriously, “Good luck with your treasure.”

“And you with yours.”

She nodded, and turned away from him. The city was so close—everything was so impossibly close—and she had only to reach out into that gilded darkness for the future she'd so long desired. She could feel Hook's eyes following her as she walked toward the fading light of the city, but by the time she’d reached the end of the docks, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to share this fun fact... I was doing some research for this chapter, and apparently the San Francisco "Mirror of the Times" was a real newspaper running in the 1860's! It reminded me of the Storybrooke Mirror, and it was such a fun coincidence, I couldn't resist including it.


	7. Debutante

A cold wind was rustling the curtains when Emma awoke.

She sat up slowly and peered out the window, squinting against the hard morning light that invaded the small hotel room. Collapsing onto the bed again, she rolled onto her side to ignore the sunlight streaming through dark maroon curtains, which reminded her suspiciously of a brothel.

Her once-fashionable traveling dress, laid out on a chair next to the door, bore all the marks of her long journey, and Emma wished impractically for her valise, left somewhere between the desert and the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Reluctantly, she stood and reached for her gown, brushing off the hem and unbuttoning the hooks in the back. Two years ago she wouldn’t have even liked the dress; now she mourned its demise.

There was a small basin of water beneath an old mirror next to the bed, and Emma gasped as she splashed the frigid water onto her face. She hadn’t bothered to braid her hair for days; now, she tied the limp curls in a small bun at the base of her neck and examined her sorry appearance.

 _I have to make a fucking good impression_ , Emma reminded herself, lacing her boots and tiptoeing out into the hall. _And no cursing._ That had always given her away, back in Boston, especially when redirecting the wandering fingers of wealthy heirs away from her bosom.

The concierge was clearly more than a little hung over, and he didn’t notice Emma dart through the dining room and out into the already-bustling streets. She pushed aside her guilt over not paying. Across the street a wealthy gentleman looked into the window at Ghirardelli’s, and she bumped into him, pinching his leather wallet. She’d sworn off pickpocketing three years ago, but apparently hadn’t lost her gift for it. Still. If all went well today, she’d be able to leave that life behind—this time, for good.

An Omnibus came to a stop at the street corner; Emma wasted no time in purchasing her fare and finding a seat near the back of the vehicle. She took a deep breath and straightened out her muddy skirts, wishing for a moment that Hook would show up with a large flask of rum. Perhaps it was just as well that he didn’t; she needed her wits about her today, and rum would just have muddied them. Still, she felt unaccountably on edge—and it wasn’t from saying goodbye the pirate. He had been her last adventure; she’d only let her walls down because she knew that, in the end, they were never going to see each other again. Now it was time to pack her freedom away and turn to responsibility.

Cheap street signs and crowed thoroughfares began to fade away, replaced by fine gowns, tailored coats, and tall buildings with golden window frames. Emma felt unusually self-conscious, and completely out of place. Eighteen years of poverty and theft would always outweigh the three she’d spent as a wealthy Boston debutante—and really, what she was about to do was more in line with stealing a life for herself than marrying into one. She’d never met this Charles H. Bettencourt, a self-made merchant, and could only hope that he’d be charmed by her…womanly graces? Emma frowned. _What the hell are womanly graces? What…what are womanly graces. No cursing._

“Excuse me, young man,” an elderly lady entreated the youth sitting beside Emma, “Are you a Union man?”

He was wearing a crisp blue uniform, and seemed to straighten up at her words. “Yes, ma’am, I’m headed East tomorrow. I had to finish up work at the shipyard before they’d let me leave.” He sighed, worrying a keepsake between his palms. “I can only hope they won’t win the war before I get there.”

The elderly lady laughed, a raspy sort of cackle. “Of all the things to worry about. Mark my words, young man, we’re in it for the long haul,” she replied. “Colonel Lee’s leading the Rebs, you know.”

“He’s a general, now.” The young man frowned. He really was only a boy, Emma thought.

The elderly lady shook her head. “You be careful out there, young man. War’s no game. Now, I said exactly the same thing to my husband when we were fighting the Brits in Ohio, but the damn fool went and got himself killed. I said, ‘John’- that was his name, John- ‘John,’ I said, ‘You are going to get yourself killed.’ And he did. Now, that was my first husband. William, my second husband, _he_ was a sailor, and a mighty fine one at that.”

Emma turned away from the conversation before she could be caught listening. The last thing she wanted was to be caught up in someone else’s business, and anyone who tried to involve her in conversation usually regretted it. Honestly, stealing had always been easier than socializing; apparently polite society didn’t appreciate choice words and finely veiled sarcasm.

The Omnibus came to a sudden stop and someone bumped into her, jarring Emma out of her thoughts. “Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry,” a feminine voice, soft and distinctly British, exclaimed beside her. “Excuse me, but is this yours?” A young lady was holding the leather wallet Emma had pocketed earlier.

“Uh…yeah. Yeah, that’s mine.”

The girl handed her the wallet and seated herself across the aisle, next to a young man in a checked gray coat. Her dress was of a most gorgeous blue, and dark blonde curls peeked out behind a small-brimmed bonnet. She looked several years younger than Emma, which would explain her distinctly brighter air. Then again, Emma Swan had never been known for gaiety.

“Thanks,” Emma said, accepting the wallet.

The young lady smiled broadly. “I’m Wendy Darling,” she said, and turned toward the young man seated beside her. “And this is my fiancé, Neal.” He smiled as well, and with all of the smiling, Emma felt it was becoming rude not to smile back.

“I’m Emma,” she replied. “Emma Swan.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan,” said Wendy.

“It’s just Emma,” she replied without thinking.

Wendy’s smile widened. “Then call me Wendy,” she said. “Do you live in San Francisco?”

“Oh, no. No, but…” She paused. “Starting now, I am.”

Neal laughed. “You could say the same for us. Wendy and I are from London, but we’re hoping to try something…a little different. San Francisco seemed like a great place to start.” His accent didn’t sound like a Londoner’s; it had a softer, friendlier edge to it.

“Are you searching as well?” Wendy asked. They were quite inquisitive. No—friendly. Emma was so used to the stiff manners of upper-class Boston that she’d forgotten what real interest sounded like. Their cheerfulness was catching, and Emma was trying hard not to catch it.

“No, I—” _Oh, what the hell._ “I’m actually meeting my fiancé this afternoon.”

Wendy gave her a sympathetic look. “Arranged marriage?”

“You could call it that.” Emma shrugged. “I arranged it myself.”

“I never wanted to grow up and get married,” admitted Wendy. “I was engaged to someone else, once, but in the end I couldn’t go through with it.” She smiled at Neal- a sweet, private smile- and he squeezed her hand.

Emma sighed. _Yeah, well, I am definitely going through with this._ Forever was a long time to play a part, but it was also a far cry from living alone and weary on the streets that had already spit her out three years ago. The Omnibus slowed, and she realized with a jolt that they had arrived on the street that Bettencourt had specified in his letter.

“This is my stop,” she said.

“It was so lovely to meet you,” said Wendy. “I hope everything goes well, with your fiancé.”

Neal nodded his agreement. “Good luck, Emma.”

“Thanks,” she said. _I’m gonna need it._ “And to you as well,” she added, feeling her way awkwardly around the customary pleasantries and surprised to find that she meant it. “I hope San Francisco works out.” Grabbing her handbag and the little leather wallet, Emma made her way to the front of the Omnibus, ignoring a gentleman’s pro-offered hand and jumping down to the cobblestone sidewalk herself.

She brushed off her dress and reached up to sweep a strand of hair away from her eyes. _Stand up straight. Make a good impression. No cursing. No cursing. No fucking cursing._

 _Fuck it all._ Emma took a deep breath and swept into the hotel. It was mid-morning, and the dining room was nearly empty. A worn-down sailor was drinking alone at a small table, and a maid whisked through the room, but—there. In the corner, below the portrait of a rather angry cat, a tall gentleman sat reading a newspaper. He wore a long black frock coat and a silk cravat; he had ordinary brown hair, was clean-shaven, and in every way, perfectly groomed.

As she stepped forward into the dining room, he looked up, a frown creasing his brow. Slowly, a smile spread across his face as he set down his paper and stood. “Emma Swan,” he said, walking towards her. It was not a question.

Emma thought that a curtsy was probably in order, but quickly decided against it lest she slip and make herself more of a spectacle. “Mr. Bettencourt,” she replied. _A lady must always be pleasant._ “It is a pleasure to meet you at last.” She was definitely breaking at least twenty rules in _The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette_.

If the merchant had read said book and found her manners lacking, he didn’t let on. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Swan,” he replied gallantly, taking her hand and kissing it graciously. He looked up again, taking in her tattered travelling gown and leather boots. “I received a message this morning. I understand you had an eventful journey?”

She nodded. “We were attacked by outlaws along the way.” It would be unwise to mention the kidnapping attempt, and Emma’s own part in their escape. Or prison. Or the pistol concealed in her handbag—Hook’s pistol, actually; she’d never given it back.

But Bettencourt was shaking his head. “I am so sorry, Miss Swan. If I had known earlier…Please believe me, I will do everything in my power to discover who did this.”

Emma smiled as gracefully as she could. “What’s done is done,” she said lightly. “What matters is that I am in San Francisco at last.” The words tasted like champagne and fine Boston dinners; she had forgotten how ridiculously flowery the conversations of the finer set sounded. It was disgusting, really.

He seemed relatively charmed by her little speech, and the frown relaxed somewhat between his brows. “Nevertheless, I will search for them,” he said. “You are my fiancée, and as such have certain privileges.” He smiled, charmingly. “Believe me, Miss Swan, I have no patience for outlaws. We will find them, and they will regret this.”

Emma nodded daintily, unsure whether she should be gratified by the effects of her so-called womanly charms or concerned about his persistence in dealing with the robbery. Before she could speak, however, Mr. Bettencourt held out his arm graciously. “Shall we?”

She smiled, resting a hand softly on his forearm, and they stepped lightly through the dining room—as fashionable society ought, according to _The Manual of Politeness_. The gentleman’s carriage was waiting outside, and the pair was quickly ushered out of the busy street.

In the far corner of the dining room, where the shadows gathered, a tall young man had been sitting unnoticed for over an hour. Now he stood, watching Mr. Charles H. Bettencourt and Miss Emma Swan as they rode away in a large burgundy carriage. Sunlight flitted over his dirty blonde hair as he walked up to the window, and when he smiled, the long scar stretching across his cheek glistened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to give you fair warning- although Neal is an important character in this story, the Neal-Emma-Hook love triangle from the show will not be featured here. I've never been a huge fan of love triangles, and I'm sure my attempts at writing about one would not do it justice.
> 
> And besides, there is plenty in store for Hook and Emma without it. ;)


	8. The Tinker

As it so happened, sauntering down the street in the already bustling hours of the morning, Killian Jones was in the market for a top hat. Despite having spent a lifetime avoiding such an accessory, the task before him required something additional to the worn black coat he’d been wearing since New York.

The air was salty- just the way he liked it- and for the first time in months, he found himself whistling a jaunty tune under his breath. He’d spent the night by the docks, staring at the stars and the great expanse of the bay, its black surface rippling beneath a watchful sky. The compass had yet to fail, and everything was finally beginning to fall into place.

As he crossed the street, an Omnibus started away from the corner, and for a moment the image of Emma Swan, blonde curls flying as she raced off to her separate destiny, entered his mind. He tucked it away. Had Killian time or interest, he might have considered her lively, beautiful—but revenge had taken too vital a role in his life to be set aside for a woman. No, it wasn’t a dalliance he was interested in- it was gold, and the knowledge that the vengeance he’d sworn nearly seven years ago could finally be carried out.

He walked past a small warehouse, slowing at the window of Ghirardelli’s chocolate shop. A wealthy gentleman in a long black coat peered in the window, and as he stepped around a paperboy, Killian slipped the man’s elegant top hat off his neatly combed head. As he set the hat atop his own raven hair, he considered pinching the man’s wallet as well—but decided against it, feeling too good to add insult to injury.

It was not a particularly long walk to Larkin Street, and although Killian knew the address by heart, he couldn’t resist pulling out the hard-won golden compass once or twice to confirm the direction. The crashing of waves and commotion of the main thoroughfare had dimmed somewhat, and it was with a confident step that he walked up to the little shop. The silver arrow of his compass directed him toward the door; straightening his newly acquired hat, he entered.

A bell jingled as Killian stepped inside. The room was well-lit, the large display windows letting in a bright, gray morning and illuminating a few rows of heavily laden shelves—and farther back, craft tools and empty space. Despite the eclectic assortment of objects in the room, it was a neat and serviceable shop, orderly in its own way. A small bottle caught his eye, and he traced the fine engravings with his finger.

“Can I help you?”

Killian looked up. From some back area of the shop, a dainty young woman had entered the room and was walking toward him. He admired the bottle for half a minute more, before turning in her direction and dipping a shallow nod.

“I’m looking for the Tinker Bell,” he said.

“Speaking,” she replied, stepping forward to take the bottle from his hands and set it gently on the shelf.

He frowned, scanning her pale green gown and slight, feminine figure. This couldn’t be right. “Love, I believe I’m looking for the more…masculine version. Mr. Bell, perhaps?”

“That would be my father.”

Ah. “I’ve been corresponding with him,” Killian explained with the kind of patience that only comes with the knowledge that ultimate achievement is soon in coming. “Is he available?”

“He’s dead,” said the girl flatly.

 _Bloody hell_. A chill slithered unexpectedly down his spine. “My condolences,” he said quietly, his sincerity as much an expression of his own loss as of hers.

But she was looking him straight in the eye, sharp eyes silently appraising him. After a long silence, she stuck out a hand. “Theresa Bell.”

“Killian Jones.”

She nodded smartly. “Mr. Jones,” she said, “My father left this shop to me, as well as the title of Tinker. If he was corresponding with you about something in particular, I can see what we can do. Although frankly,” she added, “I don’t recall any notes, any repair orders in the book under your name."

 _Good._ He'd specifically requested that. “This is more of a personal matter,” he said. “It’s regarding an old document of your father's. He’d offered to sell it to me.”

A frown crossed the girl’s features. “An old document?”

“A map, Miss Bell.”

“Tinker Bell, if you would.” She walked over to the desk, opening up the large, square drawer and sifting through a hefty stack of papers.

“Hm.” He leaned against the wall, watching her impeccable posture and steady movements as she dusted off the cover of a large box. “That tinker bit- I don’t buy it for a second. If I didn’t know any better…” He gestured to her long gown and coiffed blonde hair. “I’d say you’re a debutante.”

Her hand stilled on the box cover and she turned sharply, eyes narrowed. “If _I_ didn’t know any better-” Tinker Bell arched a brow- “I’d say you’re a pirate.”

Killian removed the stolen hat with his hook and bowed with mock flourish. “Guilty. So tell me, debutante, can you help me?”

“Help you? An outlaw? Aren’t you worried I’ll notify the authorities?”

“Well, that’s not the lady’s way.” Killian clucked his tongue mockingly. “You should be helping me find my happy ending at the ball or something equally as _precious._ ”

“I _was_ a lady. A long time ago.” She reached up a hand to tuck a stray hair back into her perfectly coiffed bun, and shook her head dismissively. “But that was taken away. As for your _happy ending_ , you’re on your own.”

He frowned, his fingers fiddling restlessly with the fraying edge of his coat. Reaching deep into the pocket, he pulled out a small bottle and remove the cap with unceremonious dignity. “Rum?”

Tinker Bell reached for the flask and took a long drag. “What’s so important about that map, anyway?”

“It’s the key to my revenge.” She returned the bottle and Killian drank, savoring the feel of cool liquid burning its way down his throat. “A wealthy merchant murdered the woman I love, and I intend to make him suffer for it.”

“And killing him is your ‘happy ending’? That’s a hangable offense. You’re willing to die for your cause?”

“I’d risk my life for two things: love and revenge. I lost the first, and if I die for my vengeance, that’s enough satisfaction for me.”

Tinker Bell watched him for a moment in quiet appraisal, lips pursed. When she spoke at last, her voice was lighter, as though she’d absorbed his words and swept them away like dust from furniture. “What sort of map are you looking for?”

“A treasure map, actually.”

“Because you’re a pirate.”

“It does seem typical, doesn’t it.”

She sighed in exasperation. “I suppose the first place to start is my father’s records. He had everything in the shop listed in the registry.”

Killian opened the door to the adjacent room. “After you, Miss Bell.”

“I prefer Tink.”

“And I prefer Hook. You must admit, it’s got more of a bite.”

 

xxx

 

Sunlight was streaming through a small window and setting great clouds of dust on fire, and Tinker Bell was poring over the record book, and the rum was nearly gone and Killian Jones was bored. He leaned up against a bookcase, tilting his head back and rubbing his hook until it gleamed in the lazy afternoon light.

“It just doesn’t make any sense.” Tinker Bell rubbed her forehead and flipped a page back and forth. At her words, the first in what seemed like hours, Killian straightened. She shook her head, her lips pursed in confused frustration. “The map—it’s supposed to be here. It’s in the records. But it’s not…here.”

“The map’s gone?” The air seemed stifling, all of the cold salty quality of the harbor lost in the small room.

“Apparently.” She sounded matter-of-fact, but the look of confusion had faded, and she looked away. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes narrowed. “Not so fast, love.” He stepped forward, tilting her chin with his hook so that they stared eye-to-eye. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“The map’s gone.”

“But you know who took it.”

She glared at him defiantly, and for a moment Killian thought she was going to order him out of her shop. But then, abruptly, the fight seemed to drain out of her eyes. Brushing his hook out of the way, she moved a stack of papers and perched on the desk. “My father died…unexpectedly. He wasn’t ill. The doctors said it was consumption, but tell me, Hook—what sort of man arranges his affairs before he even begins to cough?”

“Perhaps he was a man of foresight.”

“He was. He’d always arranged for me to have the shop—Tink was his nickname for me, actually. But the meticulous records, the frantic organization—that was new.”

“Are you suggesting foul play, love?”

“I didn’t think anything of it at first. But then, on the day of the funeral, there was a break-in. Someone must have stolen into the shop during the ceremony. I didn’t think anything was missing, but the shelves had been rearranged, and it was obvious that they’d been looking for something.”

“The map.”

“I believe so.”

The world seemed to tilt, a little, and Killian plunged his hand into his pocket, reaching frantically for the golden compass. The silver arrow spun about aimlessly.

_No._

Tinker Bell rubbed her forehead again, as though wiping the memories from the surface of her mind, and her eyes seemed to close off the story. She stood, straightened out her dress, and shook her head. “Look—I know your revenge is important to you. But it’s not the only road to happiness." She reached for his arm, pulling him out of the storeroom and into the shop.

_This is not how it’s supposed to end._

“Tinker Bell,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice even as he tried to stay it with the calm pirate cadence of old. “There’s more. You haven’t told me everything. _Who has the map?_ ”

“I don’t know, Mr. Jones,” she said flatly, guiding him toward the door, “But I hope your stay in San Francisco is otherwise successful.”

“No- _wait_ -”

“Good day, Mr. Jones.”

The door closed behind her solidly, and Killian found himself in the middle of Larkin Street as the city swarmed around him. The afternoon slammed into his chest and someone’s newspaper chatter assaulted his ears. The gentleman’s top hat felt suddenly foreign, and he snatched it up, tossing it to the ground with a satisfying swing.

Stepping on its center as he marched down the avenue, Killian couldn’t help but watch the last bit of dream he’d been holding filter up in the afternoon light and sputter out like a match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! The next couple of chapters are in the works and should be posted soon. :)
> 
> P.S.-Anyone recognize our friend at Ghirardelli's? The poor guy is really having a rough day.


	9. Something Borrowed

Standing perfectly tall and still, Emma Swan stared out through the mottled glass of the enormous bay windows in the upper floor of Sarah Finnegan’s. Located on the outer edge of San Francisco, the little shop had an expansive view of the bay, and in the late afternoon sunlight the water was sparkling like a cerulean chandelier.

“If you would, Miss Swan,” muttered the seamstress through the silver pins she was holding between her lips. Emma raised her arms, and the woman knelt to adjust the seam holding together the skirt and bodice, which had been sewn separately and only just united. It was the third fitting Emma had undergone during her first week in California. Although her wedding dress had been completed with great speed upon her arrival, Bettencourt had been adamant about replacing the wardrobe she’d left behind in the middle of Nevada Territory. And although Emma would never have admitted it, the extravagance felt good.

It felt right to stand in the middle of the empty room, arms outstretched, head held high. It was satisfying to watch the ships sail by without wondering which one was paying for her next meal. And it felt good- oh, so luxurious- to have a silk chemise, soft as a breath against her skin. She’d never care for corsets and bonnets, great bother that they were, but silk would always come with a certain thrill.

“If you would, Miss Swan.” The seamstress turned her away from the windows so that she faced an enormous looking-glass hanging on the wall. “The dress is to your liking?”

Emma fingered the fine gown, its deep blue feeling extravagant by virtue of pigment alone. Her maid- she had a maid, now- had woven every one of her freshly washed blonde curls into an elaborate bun earlier in the morning. The Dunham spinsters had been infinitely kind back in Boston, taking Emma in after the street had spit her out and dressing her up to run in the city’s finest circles; but even at her best, she’d never managed to look a true society girl. Now, two thousand miles away, Emma found herself fitting seamlessly into the part she’d never expected to have.

The gown swished against her bare toes as she stepped down from the stool. “It is indeed,” she said. “Thank you, ma’am.”

It was with great reluctance that Emma slipped out of the dress and into a pale pink dinner gown, buttoned up her shoes, and swapped her dark day gloves for a cream colored evening pair. The fittings were on Bettencourt’s tab, which exempted her from the hustle and bustle of the lobby; smiling daintily at Sarah Finnegan as she traipsed past the front window, Emma stepped out into the late afternoon.

Her fiancé’s carriage was waiting patiently in the street, and as she approached the shiny black doors, Charles Bettencourt stepped out and offered her a hand. Smartly dressed in a fine black dinner jacket, every hair in place, a respectable hat topping everything off, Emma felt something akin to pride surge in her chest as she took his hand and settled into his carriage.

He sat across from her, like a gentleman, and smiled amiably. “Did you find everything to your satisfaction, Miss Swan?”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied. “You have been very kind.”

“The Dunhams practically raised me,” he said. “I would do a great deal for them, or their ward.”

“Such as marry her?”

He smiled. “No, that was quite your own doing. That letter you wrote, after Charlotte and Mary died—well, you must know by now that from the very first moment, you had completely charmed me.”

“Charming or not, I am still grateful to you, Mr. Bettencourt.”

“Do call me Charles, Miss Swan. We are to be married in two days’ time; the formalities are rather unnecessary.”

“You are aware that Charlotte and Mary took me in after my parents’ death. I would have been alone and penniless without them.” This was all the explanation he had received; Emma had declined to inform him in her letters that she was, once again, penniless. The spinsters had died deeply in debt, and she’d had to sell the Boston apartment to repay what they’d owed. The truth of the matter was that marriage to Charles Bettencourt was the only thing keeping her out of the streets. It was her very last chance- something borrowed, not earned- and she wasn’t going to allow anything to jeopardize it.

“They were your father’s sisters,” he replied. “It was all in due form.” Another lie from the letters, but he couldn’t be allowed to wonder who her parents had been. The way Emma had been wondering for twenty-one years.

“Regardless, they have my everlasting thanks. As do you.”

Their carriage hit a bump in the road, and as Emma fell forward, Mr. Bettencourt reached out a firm hand to steady her. When he smiled, it filled his eyes. “It is I, Emma Swan, who must be grateful. You consented to be my wife.”

“An easy decision, to be sure.”

It was the closest they’d come in their first week together to flirting, and Emma was surprised to discover how naturally it came. Bettencourt was a kind man, very generous, and although she found herself occasionally stumbling over secrets and things unspoken, she felt confident that had she been who she said she was, it would have been an excellent match. As it was, she was getting better at forgetting Boston. It wouldn’t be long until she could tuck Emma Swan away into a tiny corner of her heart, displaying instead the respectable Mrs. Bettencourt. And then, perhaps, for the very first time, her worries could fade away, dissipating like mist on the wind.

xxx

Abigail and Frederick Dalton lived in one of the finest neighborhoods in San Francisco, in a large painted mansion overlooking the bay. Mr. Dalton, a Senator, was known for his political rallies and public events; Mrs. Dalton, daughter of a gold baron, was renowned for her high society dinners and fashionable parties. Between them, the Dalton Estate was always flanked by evening carriages and a steady stream of black suits and hoop skirts parading through the enormous wooden doors, the genuine glass windows illuminated late into the evening by tall, tapering candles in crystal chandeliers.

It was on just such an occasion that Emma Swan, hand resting elegantly on her fiancé’s arm, strolled down the long stone path and up the stairs to the Dalton Estate. Her shoes clicked against the tile flooring of the entrance hall, barely audible above the buzz of conversation reverberating around the room.

“You must be Miss Swan!”

A large woman wearing an enormous hat sailed through the crowd toward them, her arms outstretched. “How fine to meet you at last, darling, it’s been such a long time since our dear Mr. Bettencourt had a beaux.” She embraced Emma lightly, pressing a kiss to the air beside both of her cheeks.

“Miss Swan is my fiancée,” corrected Charles, bowing. “We are to be married on Sunday.” Turning to Emma, he added politely, “Miss Swan, may I introduce you to Mrs. Odaire? She is a good friend of mine.”

Emma curtsied politely, and the woman smiled. “A good friend of every body’s, to be sure. Have you been in California long, Miss Swan?”

“A few days.”

“Pity; San Francisco is absolutely marvelous in the spring. Well, Mr. Bettencourt, I simply must be off. _Au revoir_ , Miss Swan!” With a final wave, Mrs. Odaire sailed away down the hall and out into the evening.

Charles handed his hat to the attendant by the door and offered Emma his arm as they continued into the main room. “I must apologize,” he said quietly, “For Mrs. Odaire. I know her manners aren’t as fine as those in Boston, but she is wealthy, and European, so I suppose she can do as she pleases.”

“She seemed sweet,” said Emma, smiling.

“She is many things, my dear Miss Swan, but sweet is not one of them. I have it on good authority that she may be involved with the Wells Fargo coach robbery in Sacramento. I can forgive a great many things in a person, but thievery is not one of them.”

They swept down the hall toward the group waiting to be seated for dinner, and Emma shook off the cold feeling that had trickled down her spine at his words. And when Charles smiled, warm and genuine, she smiled back.

“I am sorry to have mentioned outlaws again, Miss Swan. That was discourteous.”

“There is no need to apologize, Mr. Bettencourt. My journey was not so traumatizing as that.”

He looked as though he wanted to say more, but before he could speak, the room quieted and Mr. Dalton stood, leading the guests into the dining room. Charles offered Emma his arm, and they entered the room together, walking up to the long table where their places had been arranged. He drew back the chair for her, removing his gloves and placing them in his tailcoat pocket before sitting to her right. Emma removed her own gloves and settled her napkin in her lap, relieved to note as she did so, that manners seemed to be quite the same in the fine homes of California as in Massachusetts.

Dinner was served promptly; Emma ate enough to be courteous but was too absorbed in keeping up with the flutter of conversation in a room full of strangers to manage any more. She succeeded in keeping her legs straight, her fingers clean, her conversation soft and polite, and was feeling quite fatigued by the time Mrs. Dalton stood, signaling the ladies’ withdrawal to the drawing room.

Hastily slipping on her evening gloves, Emma settled herself daintily into a settee and maintained what she hoped was a polite but slightly aloof expression, so as to remain unattended. However, within a moment she was joined by the hostess, her dark blue dinner dress looking regal and tremendously elegant as she sat gracefully beside Emma.

“Abigail Dalton,” she said, extending a delicate hand.

“Emma Swan.”

“I hear, Miss Swan, that you will be joining our circle?”

“I would be honored, Mrs. Dalton.”

“San Francisco has been such a terrible bore, ever since Margaret Chase left for London. You must understand, Miss Swan, we ladies have to stick together. California is nothing like Boston; everything is coated in business and cigar smoke.” She appraised Emma seriously with narrowed eyes. “I do hope you plan on becoming one of us. We need more ladies like you.”

Emma pursed her lips, unsure how to regard her words. “How so?”

Abigail ignored her question, adjusting the chain of her necklace. “You hail from Boston, Miss Swan?”

“I grew up there, yes.”

“I’m from Virginia. When I was a girl I meant to run off to Boston, but my father was after gold in California. As you can see” -she gestured to the luxurious room- “We were the lucky ones. And of course, Mr. Dalton could never be persuaded to leave San Francisco.” Her voice sounded almost wistful, but Emma was having a difficult time sympathizing with the plight of one so very wealthy.

“Virginia must have been a grand place to grow up.”

“It was,” said Abigail. “Though, I’m sure, not quite as exhilarating as life on the streets in Boston?”

“I’m sure Boston’s streets are ever so diverting,” replied Emma slowly. “Though I must admit I’ve never had the opportunity to encounter them.”

“Let’s not play games, shall we?” Abigail’s lips turned up in a smirk. “I have eyes and ears, despite everyone’s best efforts to keep things from me.”

“I’m not sure what you’re implying, Mrs. Dalton.”

“I believe you do, Miss Swan.”

“Whatever you’ve heard, I am who I say I am. Street urchins don’t become debutantes.”

“And the Confederates couldn’t secede from the Union. Even the most unlikely things can happen with the right motivation, darling. Do yourself a favor; don’t marry Charles Bettencourt.”

“Excuse me?”

“We all have our own tragedies, Miss Swan, lost love being the worst. A marriage without love is a stage for sorrow.”

 “My marriage is _my_ business,” replied Emma firmly, realizing as she did so that the façade of future Mrs. Bettencourt had slipped to let the curt, unsociable Swan girl out. She cast a glance about the room, where the other ladies drifted elegantly, oblivious to the conversation taking place on the settee.

“You’re in my city. You’re sitting in my furniture. You’re in high society now, Emma Swan, which means you are _my business._ But I didn’t come here to ruin you. I’m trying to help you escape.”

“This wedding _is_ my escape.”

“You’re prepared to sacrifice the rest of your life in marriage to a man you barely know? How _charming_. We all know Mr. Bettencourt is quite enamored with you; I just didn’t take you for the type of girl whose head was turned by flattery.”

 _You don’t know me._ “Call it a business arrangement. I need to save myself; he needs a wife. I’m getting married,” said Emma firmly. “And if it means suffering the consequences, so be it.”

At her turn of phrase, Abigail’s eyes clouded over, and her face softened. She tilted her chin slightly to the side, her high brows slightly furrowed. “Have we met before, Miss Swan?”

“I can’t see how that would be possible.”

Emma felt Mrs. Dalton’s blue eyes sweep over her blonde curls, neatly coiffed, the pale couture of her chin, the green of her gaze. “For a moment I thought…” She pursed her lips, shaking herself. “For a second you reminded me of someone I used to know.”

The puzzled look faded from her gaze, and Abigail straightened, looking Emma straight in the eye. “Miss Swan, I don’t care what you do. Stay, if you so desire. The senselessness of high society is ever so boring; we all could use a little excitement. Our circle would welcome another lady, whether or not she’s a married woman. The choice is yours.” Rising abruptly, she strode away, leaving Emma alone on the settee, fingering the pale pink of her gown and lamenting the decided lack of rum in the drawing room.

At her wedding, she thought, they'd at least serve champagne.


	10. Late Nights for Dreamers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a late update- the next few chapters are kind of complicated and I've been trying to get them just right before posting, but they should be up soon. For everyone who has been reading, thank you SO much for all of your kind works and enthusiasm. It is so very much appreciated.
> 
> P.S.- Lots of new characters making their debut in this chapter...try to figure out who everyone is! ;)

The evening was descending in swift measure on the outskirts of town, the pale glow of lamplight beginning at last its nightly crusade on the inky black darkness that flooded the streets of San Francisco. Amongst the dimly lit clapboard pubs and drafty old buildings, a few miners still wandered aimlessly, a few whores still smiled enticingly, a few foghorns still sounded out in the bay, their lonely tones filtering through the streets until they, too, were swallowed by the night.

On the empty end of a long table at Tracy’s, a tall figure eased himself into a chair and set a small pile of coins- stolen- onto the counter. The low chatter of miners didn’t seem to touch him, nor the raucous shouts of James O’Leary as he scooped his winnings from the card table.

“Rum.”

He was given a large glass of amber liquid, which he promptly and unceremoniously downed, handing the glass back for more while taking a swig from a flask he’d pulled from his pocket. The second glass he consumed more slowly, letting the alcohol burn its way down his throat as he fiddled with a small trinket.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and then he didn’t say anything.

xxx

Deep in the heart of the city, a young man fingered a small silver pan. As he brushed the hair from his forehead, a fine layer of dust settled into his soft brown curls. The light in the small apartment flickered, and he sank onto the floor with a little frown.

“We’re never gonna make it rich, are we, Wendy?”

His fiancée didn’t hear him, preoccupied as she was with letting down the mountains of curls that cascaded elegantly about her shoulders. Smoothing the creases in her long blue gown, she sighed. “And here I thought we’d never grow up.”

xxx

Higher up on the ridge, distinguished among the most fashionable of houses, the mayor stood with her back to the city, twisting a small golden band about her finger. The darkness seemed to pour into the large bedroom, the elaborate New York lamps she’d ordered lifetimes ago brightening the walls but failing to banish the shadows.

Unpinning her dark hair from the severe bun that defined her appearance to the public, she cast a final glance at the three photographs on her dressing table. The bed creaked as she sat heavily on the elegant spread and closed her eyes wearily, her head in her hands.

xxx

In a plain white building with plain white walls and plain white light that cast a dim haze across plain white floors, a young woman leaned against the wall and watched the pale sliver of a moon struggle to climb the bare black sky. Her dark auburn tresses, falling limply against the tan uniform she wore, seemed stark and vivid against the pallor of her face.

“Lacey?” A cold voice called from down the hall. For a moment her blue eyes were very still, and it appeared she wouldn’t answer. “ _Lacey_ ,” the voice called more insistently, and she turned toward the sound, where a tall man had come to stop beside a slit in the door. His lips turned up in what was likely intended as a smile, though it seemed he’d never learned how to do it properly; in the dim light the sight was almost gruesome. “Lights out,” he said coldly, walking away.

She cast a final glance at the sky as the little room plunged into darkness.

xxx

And farther still, in a small house overlooking the bay, a wealthy man in a smart black suit paced the kitchen, hand on his cane, the cold veneer and haughty façade of daylight sliding away as the cold, hard night tightened its fist on his heart. Regrets, some pouring like buckets over his head, others coming sharp and fast like darts, kept him walking across the fine tile of the floor as though to stop would be to drown in them.

And in a small tinker shop, a small blonde debutante wandered the empty storeroom and wondered when the world had become so big and empty. And in the mountains, a small boy woke to find his father crying, clutching a faded photograph. And in a fine house in San Francisco, the finest matron of high society tried to push away the thought of a recent acquaintance and old memories that seemed to surface somewhere just beyond her reach.

xxx

It was late indeed when Emma Swan stepped out into the cool night air, the soft summer grass brushing her bare feet as she left the stone patio of Charles Bettencourt’s large mansion and onto the yards of his expansive estate. San Francisco lay far beyond the ridge; she couldn’t see the lights or hear the faint crashing of waves, but she could point out the direction of the ocean, as well as the road that might’ve taken her back to Boston.

A faint breeze stirred up among the trees, and she pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders, unbothered as her long blonde tresses, unbound, swayed against her back. It was surely after midnight, and a reasonable person would likely have been amassing what the spinsters had called _beauty sleep_ , but Emma had been thoroughly incapable of such a pursuit.

It wasn’t nerves. Brides were supposed to be nervous, or so she’d heard—but the wedding, and the future that accompanied it, had been so carefully planned out that she regarded the entire thing, really, with a surprising sense of calm.

But something _had_ drawn Emma out of bed, pulled her from beneath her covers and sent her out-of-doors with little more than a summer shawl to keep the midnight chill at bay. The trouble was naming the thing.

She padded silently across the ridge and settled on the ground beneath the vast expanse of sky and a small sliver of a moon, listening to the steady cascade of crickets chirping. California, Emma mused, was far from the land of opportunity she’d always supposed it to be. There was no mistaking the cold fingers and rags, the smudges of dirt on the noses of children, the downtrodden miners come home with less than they started with—though the gilded frames and swooping gold letters on shops in fine neighborhoods did their best to cover for it.

Emma wasn’t blind to the streets that never emptied at night, the silent poor beneath the shining city of the west. Nor had she forgotten the lucky chance that spared her from being one of them. And Emma saw, far away from those unfortunate streets, in the homes of the finest ladies, the boredom behind the eyes of California’s beloved, beautiful girls—wrapped like packages in silk and ribbon, hoopskirts like birdcages clinging to their slender frames. Women who waited aimlessly for their men to come home and all the while had really nothing at all to do in dusty California while Boston slumbered, miles away, and men took up arms in Baltimore.

But she shook herself, at last, standing again and letting her thoughts slip away in the hazy moonlight. There was always much to think about, after all, but tonight her future waited right at her fingertips. Tonight she was Emma Swan.

Tomorrow she’d be married.


End file.
